Danger Nights
by QueenOfTheGingers
Summary: They both have their own kind of danger nights. Now that Moriarty has returned, the gang is forced to retreat into the Scottish Highlands for their own safety and every night holds danger. In the words of the great Robert Burns himself - "The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men/ Gang aft agley."
1. Chapter 1

**Danger Nights**

**A/N: I own nothing.**

They both have their own kind of danger nights.

For him, it's the nights where nicotine patches, or cigarettes for that matter, aren't enough. His whole body itches for a fix, a hypodermic needle, an easy way out from the endless monotony of days without cases and idiotic people around with minds as blank as wiped slates. Those are the nights when John or Mrs. Hudson muss up his sock index in search of his stash and Mycroft's lackeys set up camp in an apartment across the street from 221, ready to follow him at a moment's notice. Those nights don't happen much anymore. Sherlock is adaptable. He has found ways to cope.

She, on the other hand, finds it hard to keep from reaching for something more than just the customary glass of wine. Sometimes there are days with an endless line of bodies, empty vessels waiting for her knife. Some days it's because Sherlock Holmes can't keep his stupid beautiful mouth shut. Some nights it's because of the loneliness. It's then she picks up her dad's favorite Scotch, a habit born of sentiment from when he was still alive. The smell of it reminds her of the nights when he would come home from the pub completely trashed, and she would tuck him in on the couch, pulling the old charity shop quilt over him, hoping she wouldn't have to wash vomit out of the carpet in the morning. She knows what Sherlock says about sentiment – that it's a chemical defect found in the losing side – and for once she agrees with him. Her father drank himself to death and yet she can't hold herself back from embracing his killer.

On the very bad nights (the nights she wishes she had a mind palace so she could systematically delete images burned into her memory) it's cheap tequila. She needs something that burns her and numbs her, so she doesn't have to think about the atrocities society had placed on her table that day. She (somewhat) remembers a whole family of burn victims from a few years back. No fire alarms meant that no one woke until it was too late. There were two children. Unfortunately, she was the only pathologist on call that night. She went through a hefty amount of tequila and tissues and Doctor Who reruns and called in sick the next day. Mike Stamford only told her to feel better, and to take the next day off as well.

It had started that day, after she got off the phone with Stamford. She had come to the door in her dressing gown and slippers, not expecting Sherlock Holmes to swoop in to her cheery little flat, untidy after a night of bingeing on alcohol and baked goods, tissue strewn about the floor. She locks the door up behind him awkwardly. He doesn't say anything, just blatantly watches her tie her pale blue dressing gown tighter about herself (she's only in a camisole and knickers because she wasn't expecting anyone) and look around the flat at anything but him.

"I heard about the house fire yesterday. I heard you were the only one they had at Bart's to take care of it." His voice is softer than usual, but doing nothing for the pounding around her temples. She nods, and immediately winces.

Sherlock takes off his coat and suit jacket and hangs them both in her closet. She can't remember the last time she saw him just in his shirt, if ever. The white makes his eyes look bluer than she's ever seen them.

They look at each other awkwardly, unsure of what to say. Toby interrupts them by meowing brightly and rubbing himself along Sherlock's trousers in an almost forceful fashion.

"He's probably hungry. I don't think I remembered to refill his bowl when I got home yesterday." She moves past him to go into the kitchen, but stops short when his hand closes around her arm.

"Molly." She can feel the heat of his hand through her thin dressing gown and she shivers.

"Are you cold?" He leads her to the couch and sits her down, parking himself in a bare spot on the coffee table across from her. He rubs his hands up and down her arms, trying to warm her. "Can I fetch you something? Tea? Coffee?" He pulls the blanket from the back of the couch around her, tucking her in cozily amongst the squashy pillows and a ferociously purring Toby. She wonders for a split second why he's being so nice to her for once, but then decides that she doesn't care.

"Tea, please. I think there's some in the cabinet to the-"

"I can find my way around, Molly. Go ahead and lie down. I'll bring it over when it's ready." She can hear him switching on her electric kettle, opening drawers, sniffing her tea tins, and the sound is comforting. It's nice to not be the caretaker for a change. It's nice to be the one taken care of. She drifts off, warm in her blanket with Toby snuggled into her chest.

When she wakes, it's considerably darker outside her window and she's in her own room, still wrapped in her quilt and underneath her bed covers. She closes her eyes, not wanting to move yet. She feels considerably better than she did earlier, and warmer than she usually does in her drafty little flat. Maybe Sherlock had turned up the heat before he left. She sighs and then stretches her arms and legs and it feels so good she wants to cry. When she rolls over onto her side, she finds herself face to face with the sleeping consulting detective himself. The only light in the room is coming from through her window, so she can only see the general outline of him softly moving with each even breath he takes. It's surprising that he hasn't left yet, and even more so that he's lying with her in her own bed, but she's too tired to think much. She just folds herself gently into his chest and his arms wrap around her and she's lost once again.

She's never been alone on a danger night since.

**A/N: This has only been pr'ed by me, and since I wrote this up in literally ten minutes and it's way past my bedtime, I hope it's not too horrible. Please review?**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Danger Nights**

**A/N: I own none of these characters, unfortunately. They all belong to ACD, BBC, and Moftiss. **

The return of Jim Moriarty meant that every night was a Danger Night for Molly Hooper, though not in the usual sense. She was too terrified that Jim would end up in her flat (or that he'd send one of his minions to do her in) that she was too scared to take even a painkiller for her headache, lest it dull her senses, let alone touch any sort of alcohol. It had been absolutely horrific, seeing his face on the telly in the break room that day, laughing grotesquely like some sort of marionette. Was he really back? Or was the image just that, a puppet being worked from off stage by some other sinister hand who wanted to hurt her and all those she held dear?

She had almost cried in relief when Sherlock had swept through her door, two men with suits and discrete ear pieces behind him. She hugged him, right there in her foyer, her arms going inside of his wool coat to wrap around his waist. She could smell the night air on his jacket and she squeezed him, breathing in the scent of him. To her surprise, he hugged her back, his fingers curling into her loose hair.

"Molly... I wasn't even gone for that long..."

"I didn't know when you would come home... Sherlock, I was so worried. Jim is back – of course you already know that – and I couldn't think what to do!" She was trying so hard not to cry, but the warmth and scent of him was about to push her over the edge. " I didn't know how to contact you, and I wondered if I should call Mycroft, but then I didn't want to bother him just because I'm a silly girl. "

Sherlock pulled away, his eyebrow raised.

"I see. The most dangerous mastermind London has ever seen returns from the dead, possibly threatening your safety, and you were worried about bothering Mycroft? Silly girl," he pulled her back to him and kissed her forehead, "always putting others before yourself, no matter how much they do not deserve it."

"You say that like it's a bad thing, Sherlock."

"It makes it easier for people to take advantage of you, Molly – and, for future reference, anything you do to bother Mycroft is a point in your favor." He released her abruptly, nodding to one of the men behind him. They moved past, into the living area, and started packing her books away into black bags. "We need to get your essentials packed up and move you to Baker Street as soon as possible. The faster we get there, the safer you'll be. It was agreed that until the threat of Jim Moriarty is no longer hanging over our heads, everyone will be safer back at Baker Street."

Molly nodded in assent. "I'll go and gather some clothes and necessities. Will you gather up Toby's things for me? You know where I keep the dry food at."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at her. "I said essentials, Molly. Must we bring that wretched thing?"

"Yes, we must. I'm not leaving Toby here alone. Jim was rather fond of him, if I remember, but then again, I thought he was rather fond of me too." The look on Sherlock's face was impassive, and she sighed. "If it really bothers you that much, I'll gather Toby's things and you can grab my toiletries and some clothes." He gave her a curt nod and disappeared into her bedroom and adjoining bath. She smirked to herself. She hoped that going through her underwear drawer made him uncomfortable. It would serve him right, being so mean to Toby all the time.

* * *

When they arrived at Baker Street around midnight, John and Mary were waiting for them on the couch. They stood up when Sherlock and Molly entered, Mary coming up to give Molly a hug. Mrs. Watson was late into her third trimester and looked absolutely dead on her feet.

"Mycroft's just left," she told Sherlock, who was letting Toby out of his carrier, "He said there was some sort of emergency meeting he had to attend." She stifled a yawn. John didn't even seem to notice, looking intently on the cat currently darting around the flat like some sort of crazed demon, making up for the car ride in the cramped carrier. He looked on the verge of speaking when Sherlock dropped Molly's bag and took the Watsons by the arms.

"John, take your pregnant wife upstairs to bed. She looks exhausted, and I will not have the health of the child put at risk because of a lack of sleep." He led them out into the corridor and shut the door, leaving Molly alone in the sitting area of 221B Baker Street.

The flat was cleaner than she remembered (there were no experiments flung about in the kitchen, or nicotine patches scattered across the living room floor). Sherlock's sheet music was neatly put away, not fluttering about, and his violin was in its case, not haphazardly lying somewhere like it usually was. It was strange, seeing the flat so neat. It looked like Sherlock had recently allowed Mrs. Hudson to tidy up a bit.

Molly set her bags down on the couch. She could hear the deep tones of Sherlock's voice out in the hall, mingled with the harried whispers of his former flat-mate, but she couldn't actually tell what they were saying. Whatever it was, John didn't seem happy. She sighed. If they were about to have a row, she was going to need some tea. Besides, her pajamas and dressing gown were in a bag that one of Mycroft's men had left downstairs, and she didn't want to interrupt the boys' conversation.

After setting up Toby's food bowl and litter, she went through mindless rhythm of preparing for tea for both herself and Sherlock, absently listening to the sounds around the flat – the ticking of a clock somewhere, a creak on the stair, the crackling of the fire in the living room. Sherlock's building was certainly older than hers, but she didn't mind. How could she with the lovely wooden floors and fireplace. She even loved the obnoxious wallpaper, yellow smiley and all. It was definitely a sort of eclectic look, but it somehow came together in the end.

When he walked into the door a minute later, her bags in tow, she was sitting in John's armchair with her feet curled up under her and a warm mug of tea in her hands.

"Thanks for bringing those up. I thought I heard you and John talking outside, so I didn't want to interrupt to get my bags." She nodded at the mug on the table next to his chair. "I made you some tea. Hopefully it's still hot. I made it a while ago, and I didn't know how long you'd be."

"Thank you." He dropped her bags by the others and came to sit across from her, grabbing his mug and taking a sip. She looked tired. Her face was pale in the flickering light of the fire, and her features drawn, but there was definitely a tension in the way she held her shoulders, something that registered in his mind as fear.

"Molly." Their eyes met, her brown gaze meeting his cool blue-green. "He won't hurt you." She was silent, staring at him blankly. "There are several layers of defense around this flat involving agents from Scotland Yard, the British Government, and reliably my homeless network. There is an army doctor and an expert marksman sleeping in the room upstairs. Moriarty would have to go through all of us to get to you. He won't be able to."

"You can't possibly know that." Her voice was calm and quiet. "I'm sure he knows all about our... association. I bet he knows that I helped you that day at Bart's, and that you stayed with me at my flat." She took a last sip from her mug, effectively breaking their eye contact, and stood up stretching. "I wouldn't be surprised if he knows everything about what happened after you faked your death." She grabbed the bag that held her clothes and toiletries. "I knew what I was getting into when I agreed to help you, Sherlock. I don't regret it. I'm more worried for Mary and the baby's safety than I am for my own." She turned around to look at him. "I'm going to brush my teeth and get into my pajamas. Will you find me some sheets and a spare blanket? I'll need to make up the couch when I'm finished."

He looked perplexed.

"Why would you need to make up the couch?"

"So I can eventually get to sleep?" She walked past, toward the bath, "some of us _do_ have to sleep, you know, even while there are madmen running about." She closed the door behind her.

When she emerged from the bathroom, the fire was banked and the flat was dark. The only light in the room was coming from a lamp in Sherlock's room, coming through the half-open door. She could see him moving about in his room, tucking some books back onto their rightful shelves, straightening a picture frame on the nightstand as he passed by.

He looked up as she opened the door more fully.

"I still need the sheets for the couch, if that's alright. You forgot to leave them out for me." She was standing in the doorway, her hair loose and her legs bare underneath the over sized button down shirt. She thought she saw his eyes linger on her uncovered legs before he looked away again.

"You aren't sleeping on the couch. I've set up some of your things in here for you." Looking around she saw a few familiar items of hers – the faded picture of her mother on the bedside table next to her worn copy of _Jane Eyre_, her eyeglass case – set up where she would normally have them in her own room. "It would be ridiculous to insist you sleep on the couch. It's not as though we are unacquainted with sharing sleeping quarters, as you well know, and the bed is large enough for the both of us." He eyed her bare legs again. "I see I forgot your dressing gown. Very well, I shall lend you one tomorrow." He crossed over to the dresser, pulled out a pair of thick woolen socks, and tossed them to her. "It's the middle of winter, Molly. You really should be wearing more clothing."

She caught them mid-air and scowled, flopping herself on the bed next to a dozing Toby. The socks look hand knit and cushiony, and unlike anything Sherlock would normally purchase. Maybe they had been a gift?

"If I do recall, I am not the one who packed my night things. You were the one who conveniently forgot to pack my warm set of pajamas and slippers." She slipped beneath the sheets, warm socks and all, and started to do a quick braid in her hair.

Sherlock shrugged and shoved his hands in the pockets of his slacks.

"Yes, well, those tattered sheep things hardly count as slippers anymore, do they? And you never keep your dressing gown in the same place. You couldn't have expected me to find it in a hurry."

He watched her finish her braid and tie it off with a band from around her wrist.

"So..."

"So what, Sherlock?" She switched the table lamp off and hunkered deeper into the covers. "I'm tired, and I need to get some rest. Are you coming to bed then, or are you planning on staying up?" She could see him still standing beside the bed.

"Right. I'll be in the other room." He turned on his heel and left, closing the door beside him.

A few minutes later she heard the soft strains of the violin from the living room.

* * *

**I am planning on writing more of this story! Lone Wolf Of The Gods requested that I write a bit more for this fic, and I'm definitely going to, but I felt like I needed to end the chapter here. Hopefully I'll have more up soon. Thank you for nowsusieq, emedealer, Empress of Verace, darthsydious, and Lone Wolf for reviewing first chapter :)**

**Thank you for reading, and for taking the time to REVIEW :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Danger Nights – Chapter 3**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. Everything belongs to ACD, BBC, and Moftiss. **

**A/N: The piece Sherlock is playing in this chapter (and probably in further chapters as well) is Massenet's **_**Méditation de **__**Thaïs**_**. There's a pretty spectacular version with Joshua Bell on Spotify that I listened to over and over again, if you're interested. **

Sherlock Holmes did not consider himself a man of sentiment – in fact he readily extolled the virtues of serving logic above all things, and did so on a regular basis. He only had a few whom he would even consider calling his friends (John, Mary, Molly, possibly Garth), and he invariably detested his contemptuous, derisive, condescending, overweight and positively odious older brother. He rarely saw his parents, only visiting when his mother did that awful thing she did – quietly sniffling into the other end of the line as though she was trying very hard not to let on how much she missed him, until his father rescued the phone from her (usually with a gentle "There, there, Violet) and set up a visit. For all his professed distaste of human emotion (he liked to think that it was _because of_ his distaste for human emotion), Sherlock Holmes hated hearing the women closest to him cry. It was for that reason the CIA agent had landed Mrs. Hudson's bins, why Sherlock had orchestrated the end of the separation between John and Mary, and why Molly Hooper was currently sleeping in his bed.

He retrieved his violin from its case and stood in front of the dark window, plucking lightly at the strings in a random pattern of notes.

From the moment he had touched his first violin, he had never known anything that could bring such a peace over him. Even the drugs hadn't been as effective – the first few times they had been mind-numbingly blissful, yes, but the more he used the more he withdrew into himself, becoming someone he scarcely recognized. It was the opposite when he surrendered himself to music. Music let him feel, in a way that he had always been afraid to. Somehow, music made it safe to think about things that would otherwise terrify him. He had turned to music when he thought The Woman had been murdered. He had played while awaiting Moriarty's visit to his flat on the day of his acquittal. It was music that helped him sort through the thoughts in his head when he couldn't, or wouldn't, speak them aloud.

Sherlock ruffled though the sheet music he kept in his mind palace, in a room kept readily available for moments like this. It took him only a few seconds to find something and, with the chosen work brought to the forefront of his mind, Sherlock breathed himself into the first notes of the piece.

From a general standpoint, he supposed it was normal for him to have a sort of affection for Mrs. Hudson. As one of his mother's closest friends, she had been present throughout his childhood, and had become a sort of surrogate mother for him here in London. She was constantly cooking and cleaning for him (even when he told her not to), and she always threw his laundry in with hers when she did the wash. She was dear to him in a way that reminded him of his feelings for his mother. He grudgingly let the both of them fuss over him when they needed to, letting them love him in the way he had seen mothers often do, rarely letting on that he did – in fact – reciprocate their affection.

Both Mrs. Hudson and Mary Watson were easy to interact with in a friendly (if affectionate) way. His landlady had his whole life to learn Sherlock's peculiarities, and knew that he returned her regard. Mary was one of the few people he knew who could read people better than he could (she said it had something to do with understanding human nature), and she knew that he valued their friendship without needing any form of verbal confirmation. Sherlock was fortunate to get along as well as he did with his best mate's wife (although – he has to admit – there are certain things that you cannot share without liking each other, and racing through London on a motorbike to save a loved one from burning to death in a bonfire is probably one of those things).

It was generally a difficult thing for him to process what feelings he _did_ have into words (he had been that way since childhood), and whenever he happened to experience any sort of emotion he was, more often than not, too overwhelmed to verbalize anything coherent. Instead, he preferred to shut those feelings away, letting them out into the open only when absolutely necessary, or substituting a scathing remark when it was not.

When it came to Molly Hooper, Sherlock didn't know how to act.

He had quickly noticed her attraction to him when they first met (pupils dilated, blush spreading from her face down to the neckline of her blouse, the quick pulse of the vein in her neck, the way she kept looking at his lips) and deduced that this cat-loving only child with no living parents was in her mid-twenties, had been single for quite a while, and that exploitation of her desire for him was the easiest way of getting what he wanted. It had been easy to back her up against the counter, his hands on either side of her blocking her escape, enticing her with the deep voice and smooth tones he knew worked on women. He had been somewhat high at the time, and impulsive. He had been so close to her... close enough to see that her eyes were actually hazel, not brown like he had thought, close enough to smell the perfume on her neck. He had kissed her, the drugs coursing through his system negating his usual rigid sense of self-control. This slip of a girl would have done what he wanted without any physical means of persuasion, so why had he kissed her?

Not only had he kissed her, but he had cleared off the counter with a sweep of his arm and lifted her onto it – all without breaking the kiss. In for a penny, he guessed. Besides, he thought, she had been very enthusiastic – clutching at his hair and moaning when he pulled her hips closer to his roughly with the hand that was gripping her bottom, his other hand searching out places to make her moan even louder. In that moment he had utterly wanted her... wanted to do more than just kiss and pet her, and he had very nearly had her. It was only when they heard a throat clearing from behind them that Molly broke away from Sherlock, quickly sliding off the counter and fixed her blouse, which had been all but unbuttoned. With a curt nod to the two men who had interrupted them, Molly quickly went into her office and shut the door.

Lestrade and Mike Stamford hadn't said a word, merely exchanging a look and going over to the body Sherlock had already looked over (it had been his first case with Lestrade – an exchange for the Detective Inspector not charging him for drug use or possession). Of course he had already solved the case within two minutes of seeing the body, but he didn't bother to say so. He had been too overwhelmed by the heavy burn of desire in his belly and his thoughts on the woman who had caused it. Without a word to either of the men, he strode out of St. Bart's, choosing to walk home in the rain rather than hail a cab.

The next time she had seen him, she hadn't been as friendly. She hadn't said a word to him upon his entrance to the lab, and it looked as though she was waiting to see how he would approach the subject of their last meeting. When it was clear he wasn't going to say anything about it at all, she confronted him; berating him for taking advantage of her, and blaming her surprise at the situation for letting the situation go as far as it had.

"In fact," she had said, her arms crossed under her breasts, "I make it a point not to associate with drug addicts, so the other day was entirely your fault." Her face was indignant. "I would appreciate it if you would treat me with the professionalism I deserve." For the second time that week he swept out of the morgue without a word.

The next day he checked himself in to a long-term rehab clinic. He made it a point not to kiss her in the morgue again.

The last note of the piece he had been playing rang out in the dim flat. When the last vibrations left the strings, he carefully tucked his violin away in its case.

He had spent more than six months in that clinic. He had learned to control his urges. He would not relapse. He would not break.

He called Lestrade immediately upon his release, and informed him that he would consult on the current case. Within an hour he was at the morgue, listening to Molly chatter on, obviously ill at ease around him. It seemed that she had found out about his recent stint at rehab somehow, and was feeling guilty for her sharp words to him the last time they had met.

In fact, she had only gotten over her discomfiture around him after they had lived together for a while after the fall. It seemed that sharing a small living space with him had killed any romantic illusions she may have once had. In a way it was a relief. He didn't have to put up with her bumbling around self-consciously anymore. Unfortunately for him, her newly found "gumption" (as she called it) meant that she didn't mind yelling at him for being immature or annoying or rude.

He was at the door to his bedroom now, looking intently upon the woman in his bed to make sure she was really asleep. After a moment, he walked through, closing the door softly behind him. Her thick braid was lying on his unoccupied pillow. He could hear the quiet sounds of her deep breathing, every once in a while interrupted by a soft sigh.

"Sherlock."

His name was barely a whisper on her lips.

"Sherlock. Come to bed." Her eyes were still shut, and he could tell she was more asleep than awake.

Lifting the covers, he slid in next to her, molding his body to hers in the dark. She sighed appreciatively, wrapping her arms around him and snuggling into his chest. He could feel the tip of her nose on his collarbone.

He ran a hand up her back and felt the tip of her braid. He pulled out the elastic. He liked her hair better down, anyways. He unraveled her long hair from its braid, fanning it out around them. It smelled lightly of her favorite perfume.

The warmth of their combined heat lulled him softly into sleep.

All around them, the night quietly went on.

**A/N: I'm so sorry it took so long for an update! For whatever reason, I really had to force myself to sit down and actually write. The fact that this chapter is from Sherlock's pov didn't help a bit. I really tried to make sure that Sherlock stayed in character. I feel like we've seen more and more of Sherlock's actual depth of feeling the further we get into the show. We know that Sherlock isn't actually an unfeeling bastard like he wants us to believe... He actually had very intense feelings, and I think that the intensity of his human emotion frightens him at times, especially when it comes to relationships that aren't normal "family" type relationships (think Mrs. Hudson, John, Mary, etc.). I hope I conveyed that with this chapter, and gave some background and insight without it being too dull. Like I said, this chapter was REALLY difficult for me. **

**Thank you to all the wonderful people out there who reviewed last chapter, and to the people who have favorited and are now following this story! You guys rock! ****Please PLEASE Review for this chapter so I can know how you guys liked it. How will I know if I did alright if nobody tells me? ;) **


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4 **

"Hmm." There was a brush of fingers on her wrist and a tickling of curls on her face as someone crouched over her. "Her pulse and breathing are normal. She'll be fine." The person above her stood. "It appears as though Wiggins overestimated the correct dosage for Molly," Sherlock said with a tone of annoyance, "I will be having a word with him about proper dosing procedures for homemade tranquilizers."

John let out a snort.

"You should have had that conversation with him before you let him drug my pregnant wife at Christmas. That's twice in one week now Sherlock."

"John, let up." Mary's voice came closer. "That was the best night's sleep I've had in a while. For once I wasn't getting up to pee every two hours. Besides, Uncle Sherlock wouldn't let any harm come to his niece. He has too many plans for a future apprentice."

"Quite right, Mary. Ah. I see our ride has arrived." The sound of tires crunching over rocks and dirt was swiftly approaching. "John, should you carry Molly, or should I?"

"I think you've got enough woman to take care of right here, John Watson. If you're sweet, I won't even make you carry me into the car."

"You heard the missus. Best get moving."

Arms lifted her and cradled her into a warm chest.

"Sherlock? What's going on?" Molly's voice was rough with sleep.

"It's alright, Molly. Go back to sleep. I'll wake you when we're there."

Molly drifted asleep once more.

* * *

"We're making a pit stop, love." Mary's voice was soft as she gently shook Molly awake. Molly opened her eyes and saw the blonde's smiling face before her. "We're going to have a quick bite to eat, and then we'll be on the road again. You should try and stretch your legs some."

"Okay." Molly sat up from where she'd been dozing on the bench seat and pushed her blanket off. "Where are we at?"

They were parked on the shoulder of a remote road lined with trees. John helped Mary out of the door to the SUV, steadying her on the loose gravel.

"Just an inn we happened to pass by. I needed to stop anyway, this one's been bouncing on my bladder for a while now." Mary rubbed her generous baby bump. "There's an inn just down the road."

John assisted Molly out of the back seat and into the cold morning air.

"We figured everyone would probably be hungry soon anyway." He tilted her chin up, peering into her eyes. "Pupils are back to normal. Wrist, please?" She put her hand in his outstretched one and he started to take her pulse. Molly turned to Mary.

"What happened? Did Sherlock drug me again?"

"Actually that would be my fault." There was a tall blonde man walking toward them, dressed in hiking gear and carrying boxes of takeout. "We had to abduct you in the middle of the night, and we wanted it to look authentic, in case someone was watching." He came to a stop in front of the trio and beamed a wide smile at Molly. "By the way, I like your pajamas." He winked at the shivering pathologist.

"That reminds me," she said, shivering and pulling the dressing gown she was wearing tighter, "why am I the only one in my pajamas?"

"We've all been able to go to the inn to change, love." Mary took the box the tall blonde stranger gave her, and moaned throatily. "Thanks for that. I'm bloody starving." She opened the box and started shoving chips into her mouth, not bothering to swallow before speaking. "I put your boots on for you earlier, when I tried to wake you up the first time. The rest of your clothes are in your bag. John can take you to the inn to change before we leave, yeah?"

"I can take you right now, if you want." The man in hiking gear handed John the rest of the boxes and headed towards the back of the car. "I'll just grab your bag for you, and then we can head up to the inn."

Molly laughed indignantly, arms crossed. "I'm not going anywhere with you until you tell me who you are and what's going on here. Where's Sherlock?" She shot the man a cross glare. "Mary and John trust you, and I can tell that you're carrying a concealed firearm on your hip. Are you a friend of Sherlock's, or his brother?"

"He said you were smart." An easy grin spread across his face as he sorted through the bags in the boot. "You can call me Eames. Mr. Holmes sent me to keep an eye on you guys and get you to your safe house." He grabbed a nondescript black rucksack and slung it over his shoulder. "Sherlock is down at the inn waiting with my partner, Johansson. If you're ready, we can head down there now." He handed her a navy blue zip jacket and she shrugged it on, grateful for the extra warmth.

"What about John and Mary? Will they be safe here alone?"

"We'll be good here, as long as you bring back some ketchup." Mary said, smiling at Molly. "I'll take good care of John until you guys get back." She winked, and Molly laughed.

"Alright then. I guess we'll be off." She shoved her hands in her pockets and started off toward the inn.

"So, you work for Mycroft, then. How's that?" She had only met the eldest Holmes brother on two occasions, and he hadn't seemed like a particularly warm person either time.

"He's a good employer, as long as you're smart. The job's always interesting. Never a dull moment." He looked up as a Redwing flew by overhead. "What about you? What's it like being a pathologist?"

"Honestly, I love it." She sighed. "Sometimes it's a hard job... especially if there are children. But most of the time it's wonderful. I love having a lab to work in, and I love the people I work with. I love the work that I do, even if most of the people that come through are terrible conservationists." She smiled at him. "I get to solve puzzles, and I get to make a difference, even if it's just for one family or the person that ends up on my slab. My job gives me purpose."

They walked in silence for a few minutes, every once in a while the man next to her starting as if to say something, but then keeping silent.

"Just say it, whatever you want to say."

"I wasn't going to say anything."

"You were definitely going to say something. You keep looking at me like you want to ask me something, and then you stop. "

Eames cast another sidelong glance at the petite woman next to him.

"So... You and Sherlock, then?"

"Me and Sherlock, what?"

"You're together, right?"

She snorted. "Me and Sherlock? Whatever gave you that impression?"

"Well... I did find you in bed together."

"When _you_ broke into the flat in the middle of the night." She kicked a piece of gravel. "It's not like that. We're just friends... co-workers. Besides, it was his bedroom anyway. There was plenty of room, and he sleeps so little that any rest he does get should be comfortable. He's far too tall for that couch." She could see the inn from the road now, an old white washed building with red shutters and a slate roof. "Don't make assumptions that you have no basis for."

Her walking companion grasped her arm and faced her.

"Relax, Dr. Hooper. You wouldn't think I was making assumptions either if you had seen the way your detective had his arms tangled about you in bed." At her confused look, he continued. "When we came in last night, our orders were to give you all a sedative and make it look like an abduction. We pretty much had to untangle you two to load you in the car. I just assumed you two were together." He chuckled and threw an arm around his small companion. "I guess the Consulting Detective just likes to cuddle. Who would've thought?" She giggled softly.

"Molly! There you are."

Eames leaned in to whisper conspiratorially to Molly.

"Talk of the Devil and he shall appear." She grinned at him.

Sherlock was striding toward them, Belstaff billowing in the winter wind and scarf wound about his neck. He looked displeased at the sight of them. Eames took his arm off Molly's shoulders and shoved his hands into his pockets.

"It's too cold out her for you to be walking around without a real coat." He took off his coat and draped it about her shoulders.

"Sherlock, keep your coat on. In two more minutes we'll be inside and I won't need it."

"Nonetheless, for the next two minutes you will wear my coat and be warm." He grabbed the bag from Eames with one hand and took Molly's hand with the other. "Go back to the car. We'll follow with Johansson when Molly's ready."

With a nod of acknowledgement from the man, Sherlock pulled away and toward the inn.

"What was that for?" she asked, trying to keep up with the detective's long strides. "He was just being nice."

"I don't like the way he looks at you. Keep up, Molly, we're almost there."

"What do you mean, the way he looks at me? Friendly-like? He was just making polite conversation, Sherlock! You should try it sometime. And it doesn't count if you're just trying to get something out of me."

"What makes you think that he's not trying to get something from you? The tan line on his hand suggests that he usually wears a wedding ring, yet he's not wearing it today. His body language suggests that he finds you sexually attractive. I was merely trying to save you from being the conquest of yet another married man."

"Stop it, Sherlock." She wrenched her hand away from him and rounded on the shocked detective. "I'm sick of you doing this. He wasn't being inappropriate." She glowered up at him. "Believe it or not, sometimes people are friendly without having ulterior motives!" She snatched her bag away and started toward the inn door, Sherlock following behind. "And just so you know, I'm still properly cheesed that I was carted off in the middle of the night in nothing but my pajamas and I'm blaming you for it. Nothing like this ever happened before my association with you. Everything was peaceful and quiet." He reached the door before she did.

"Peaceful and quiet, hm?" His eyes crinkled at the corners, and she could tell he was grinning. "Sounds rather dull, doesn't it?"

She tried not to grin back, she really did, but it was useless. She laughed as they swept into the inn.

"Oh, shut up. Yes, it was boring but it was a great deal safer."

* * *

When they met up with the others back at the car, Molly was amused to find John and Eames arguing over the pros and cons of various firearms. Johansson, Eames's partner, rolled her eyes and walked past to climb into the driver's seat.

"So where exactly are we going?" Molly asked Sherlock as he boosted her up into the large SUV.

"A safe house on the coast of Scotland." He climbed up into the seat next to her. "We needed a place that was secluded with a considerable amount of land for proper security and surveillance. We'll stay there until it's safe to come back to Baker Street."

"Will Mrs. Hudson be there? I would have thought she would have come with us, you know."

"Mycroft is allowing both Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade to temporarily live at his own residence, probably in exchange for some of Mrs. Hudson's German Chocolate Cake, the fatty. She'll be quite safe."

"Seems like a fair trade."

"I'm sure Mycroft thinks he's getting the better end of the deal."

When they finally parked three hours later, Molly couldn't help but be stunned. What Sherlock had called a "safe house" was more accurately called a mansion. Even John let out a low whistle as they got out of the car and onto the drive.

"How are we coming to stay here, again?"

"Technically, this house belongs to my family. My ancestors were mostly country squires, but my maternal grandmother several generations removed was the daughter of Carle Vernet, the French painter. Of course, being the illegitimate daughter of a gentleman and his mistress, Violete wasn't able to inherit under British law. She was, however, extremely clever and the favorite child of her wealthy father who proceeded to deed the house to her under the false name of James Macalister."

John stared at him, slack jawed.

"You mean to tell me," he said, "that you own a _bloody_ _mansion_? That would have been nice to know when we were having money troubles between cases, Sherlock."

The detective looked confused.

"I don't see how owning an estate house would have helped us buy groceries, John."

"Alright you two, let's go inside." Mary linked arms with her befuddled husband and steered him toward the front entrance of the great stone house.

"You know," Molly said conversationally, "if you're related to Vernet that means you're also related to Poirot."

"Come now, Molly," he said as they entered the house, "Hercule Poirot is a fictional character. I, however, am as real as you are."

"It makes sense, though," she continued. She grinned wickedly at the detective as they entered the front hall. "There's too much symmetry. You're always impeccably dressed. I bet you'd even wear a suit to the beach if you could. You both have a best friend who helps you solve crimes the live long day. John even served in the Middle East like Captain Hastings."

"Don't forget the overbearing older brother who thinks he's infinitely more intelligent than everyone else." The man speaking closed the book he had been reading, keeping a finger in it to hold his place. "Too bad old Poirot had to go without the charming and ridiculously good looking younger brother." He offered a hand to Molly, and when she took it he kissed her knuckles. She blushed at the gesture.

"It's good to finally meet you, Dr. Hooper. I've heard such good things."

Sherlock cleared his throat. The man straightened and gave Molly a charming smile, ignoring the detective behind her.

"My name is Sherrinford Holmes. Welcome to my prison."

* * *

**A/N: I'M SO SORRY that it took so long for me to write/upload the next chapter. I went on a nine day family trip to Universal Studios Orlando, and St. Augustine, FL and we drove there and back. I have an infant daughter, and she was still really good on the drive, but still. We went to The Wizarding World of Harry Potter (AAAHHH!) and I got a wand and PrincessOfTheGingers got a pygmy puff (properly named Neville) and I got so sun burnt that I'm literally peeling for the third time since we got back. We had to move out of our apartment early because of a leakage problem from the apartment upstairs causing mold (ew) and we had to move into my parents' house for a while. My husband is currently working 55-60 hour weeks because he's in the Police Academy and he's constantly going on ride-alongs so he can get more familiar with the job he's doing. My now 8 month old is getting her first tooth, and she's learning to stand up on her own. Basically what I'm trying to say is that this past month has been really stinking stressful (and fun), but I'm not going to abandon this story, especially since I've really started seeing where the plot is going to go. KingOfTheGingers has been helpful in conversations of what would be necessary to go off the grid and into hiding, and he's been wonderful about letting me bounce ideas off of him. **

**Thank you all soooo much for your reviews and enthusiasm! I promise that it won't take half as long to update with the next chapter. Feel free to tell me what you think so far. Did you like Eames, even though he's (kind of) an OC? Does Sherrinford seem familiar in any way? I'll be sure to answer any and all reviews I get :)**


	5. Chapter 5

"_Don't forget the overbearing older brother who thinks he's infinitely more intelligent than everyone else." The man speaking closed the book he had been reading, keeping a finger in it to hold his place. "Too bad old Poirot had to go without the charming and ridiculously good looking younger brother." He offered a hand to Molly, and when she took it he kissed her knuckles. She blushed at the gesture. _

"_It's good to finally meet you, Dr. Hooper. I've heard such good things."_

_Sherlock cleared his throat. The man straightened and gave Molly a charming smile, ignoring the detective behind her. _

"_My name is Sherrinford Holmes. Welcome to my prison."_

* * *

**And now we welcome the New Year, full of things that have never been" - Ranier Maria Rilke**

Chapter 5

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his overdramatic younger brother.

"What a prison it is, Sherrinford. More like a gilded cage for a spoiled brat."

"You were always _so_ unpleasant to be around, brother." Sherrinford tucked Molly's hand into the crook of his arm. "Shall I show you where you shall be staying, darling? The maid has already shown the Watsons to their rooms, but I wouldn't mind giving you a little tour on the way."

Sherrinford winked at his sibling as they headed down the hall and past the enormous wooden staircase. "Don't worry, Sherly, I'll take good care of her."

"I'll see you in a bit, Sherlock." She gave a little wave with her free hand. Sherlock's face was inscrutable as they around the corner and out of sight.

Molly raised a delicate eyebrow at the youngest Holmes brother.

"Sherly? Really?" Her walking companion smirked wickedly.

"He absolutely detests being called that. My dear older brothers have always been such sticks in the mud, Mycroft especially. Sherlock is a bit less boring, but he's got the whole egomaniac thing going against him." He patted her hand. "Of course, he wasn't always like that, you know. He's always been overly intelligent, but he used to be softer, and less cold to those around him."

"What happened?"

"He lost someone, someone very dear to him." Sherrinford came to a stop in front of a pair of decorative iron doors. The glass panes behind the wrought metal were foggy with moisture. "Now, enough of all that gloominess. How about we take a quick stroll through the conservatory?"

The conservatory was gorgeous, with extensive walls of steel and glass. A variety of hundreds of different plants were contained within the room, their scents mingling and wafting around the two visitors. Baskets with dangling flora hung from low beams, and trees of all sorts intermingled along the aisles of the glass room, giving it a feel similar to that of a small jungle.

"Do you know much about botany?" Molly asked her companion as they strolled through foliage lined paths. There were a few flowers she could name, and many that she could not.

"It's been a hobby of mine, since I was sequestered here. There are a great many books on the subject in the estate's library, and I've always been interested in the traditional uses of various plants."

She leaned forward to smell one of the pale pink on the tree in front of her. "We briefly touched on the subject in med school. Of course, they were more focused on teaching us modern medical techniques, but it was an interesting section to say the least." She came over to the bush Sherrinford was standing by. "I like these. What are they called?"

He plucked a white blossom from the tree, discarding the leaves along the stem.

"It's a Camellia." He tucked the bloom into the loose bun at the nape of her neck and smiled. "It suits you."

The next room on Sherrinford's tour was the library. It was a massive room, painted bottle green and filled with numerous leather bound tomes just waiting to be reached for. A comfortable looking Chesterfield sat before an enormous fireplace, the chestnut leather worn soft with use. A lovely patchwork quilt was folded along the arm of the couch, and several books sat on top of the elegant side table next to it.

"I feel like I just walked into a movie or novel of some sort." Molly walked along the shelves, letting her fingers ghost along the spines of the books she passed. "It's almost unreal. I've never seen so many privately owned books before."

Sherrinford smiled at the pathologist as she took in the room around her, and went to sit on the couch. She spun as she surveyed the painted ceiling, a rendering of the garden scene in Romeo and Juliet.

"My great grandfather was a lover of books. He spent most of his life procuring rare editions and manuscripts for this library. As to the mural above you, it was a gift from a devoted father to his favored daughter, Violete. She loved the works of Shakespeare, so her father the painter captured their likeness in oils for her." "I could never understand why he chose Romeo and Juliet."

"It is a tragic love story, you know." Molly came to sit next to him. "Those two star-crossed youths have been inspiring love affairs for hundreds of years."

Sherrinford scoffed at her. "Pah. Maybe that's why there are so many failed relationships nowadays. To quote a wise man, 'Tragedy is tragedy, and at the bottom, all tragedies are stupid.'" He stretched out his limbs, folding his arms behind his ginger head and crossing his long legs at the ankles. His socks were patterned with red and white polka dots above his oxfords. "I prefer to laugh any day."

Molly stood abruptly, crossing her arms and looking affronted. "Love isn't a laughing matter, Sherrinford. Tragic love is quite beautiful, and possibly the deepest love to be had."

"I disagree." Sherrinford stood, towering over her slight frame. "There's something to be said about a simple love between a man and a woman who live out their lives together, growing old and grey and putting the other before themselves at all times. Lovers who are best friends and confidants, who are two halves of a whole. Love doesn't have to be tragic to be true. The true tragedy is letting love pass you by because you can't recognize it." He gently touched her arm. "Molly, I didn't mean to upset or offend you. If I have I am truly sorry." He rubbed the back of his neck with a hand, giving her an embarrassed smile. "I tend to get a bit overexcited about these things."

Molly sighed and uncrossed her arms.

"I guess you could say I got a bit overexcited as well. Love and relationships can be a tetchy subject with me lately."

"Ah." She saw the way he took her in, his eyes drifting from her bare left hand and back to her own. She rolled her eyes.

"At least you keep your deductions to yourself. It's very polite of you."

"I respect your privacy, Dr. Hooper. If you wish to reveal anything to me, it will be on your own time. Now," he said, once again tucking her hand into the crook of his arm, "It will soon be time for dinner, and you haven't seen your room yet. It's only a few doors down."

They walked halfway down the hall, Sherrinford's heels tapping on the polished wood floor, until they came to an elegantly carved oak door which he opened for her.

"This is it."

The room was a pale sea glass green with white trim and walnut herringbone wood flooring. There was a small jeweled chandelier hung above the carved wood bed, and an ornate pendant light above a small reading area with a white and black striped loveseat and bay window. A fire roared opposite the bed, intricate vines and flowers carved into the wood of the mantel and pillars, and a wild mix of begonias, forget-me-nots, tiger lilies, and marigolds sat on the nightstand.

"It's perfect, Sherrinford. I absolutely love it." It was difficult to resist the temptation of flinging herself onto the creamy white duvet and countless pillows that adorned the gargantuan bed.

"Excellent. I'll leave you to get settled in, then, and I'll see you at dinner."

"Thank you for showing me around, Mr. Holmes. Your tour guide skills are unparalleled."

With a final smile at her he shut the door, leaving her alone in her room.

She took a running leap onto the bed.

* * *

It had been an interesting week, to say the least.

Her Christmas had been spent at her flat in London, alone with a glass of wine and the Doctor Who Christmas Special. When Lestrade had shown up at her flat in the wee hours of the morning to escort her back to the morgue, she had welcomed the chance to go in to work, if only to have something to do. It wasn't until she saw Anthea standing behind the detective and looking more than a bit worse for wear that she realized something was wrong.

Mycroft Holmes had used considerable influence to assign Molly to the autopsy of a Mr. Charles Augustus Magnusson, a wealthy newspaper mogul. Magnusson had been shot point-blank, the cause of death exsanguination due to a gunshot wound entering through the Frontal bone and exiting the Parietal, and the ripping of both the Frontal and Occipital lobes of his brain. The eldest Holmes brother had waited for the results of the examination, sitting in the exact chair his brother used whenever he came to the morgue for a visit.

When she handed him the finished report, he thanked her and tucked the papers into a manila envelope in his briefcase, clicking it shut. He turned his calculating gaze on her.

"Dr. Hooper, I believe that it would be pointless to remind you that discretion is of the utmost importance in the case."

"Of course, Mr. Holmes. I'm always more than happy to help with whatever you need. Goodness knows I've had enough practice with Sherlock." Her small smile fell flat when she saw the barely concealed grief on his weary face.

"Mr. Holmes, what's happened? Has something happened to Sherlock?" He picked up his suitcase and headed toward the door. "Mycroft?!" He stopped at the use of his given name, his hand still on the door handle. "What's happened?"

"Sherlock won't be needing your assistance anymore, Dr. Hooper. Thank you for aiding him throughout the years. It was most appreciated."

He had left quickly and quietly.

She tried calling Sherlock (who, unsurprisingly, hadn't answered), John (his phone straight to voicemail), and Mrs. Hudson (she had left a frantic message and then immediately upon hanging up remembered the landlady had gone to visit her sister). It wasn't until she got home that she got news, in the form of a slim white package, tied up with yellow ribbon and lying on her doormat.

She picked it up and gently undid the silk ribbon, forced to take off her mittens to unwrap the tissue paper.

It was a first edition of _Peter and Wendy_. When she carefully opened the book to the ribbon, there was a both a card and a black and white illustration of the illustrious Captain James Hook towering over a wily Peter, the Lost Boys and Wendy looking on in fear. She opened the card.

_Molly – _

_My mother used to read this to us at bedtime, letting us read the parts of our favorite characters. Mycroft was always Mr. Darling, perhaps because he's boring, overweight, and pretentious. I was always Hook. Though we didn't know each other in childhood, I think you would have made a rather good Wendy. _

_Merry Christmas. _

– _Sherlock_

That had been four days ago, the day after Christmas. The next day, while she was finishing up her shift at St. Bart's, Jim's face had been broadcasted across the nation, on every television in every home and business. Sherlock had shown up at her flat that night from who knows where, she'd been forced to leave behind her home for her own safety, and then she was abducted in the middle of the night and taken to a _mansion_ that Sherlock's secret younger brother had been hidden in forever ago for unknown reasons.

Molly sighed. Sherrinford seemed like a decent enough sort. He had been nothing but a gentleman while giving her a tour of the house, and she would be lying if she said she hadn't found him alarmingly attractive in both looks and manner. She wondered what he had done to deserve house arrest hundreds of miles away from his family.

There was a knock on her door.

"It's Mary, can I come in?"

"Go ahead."

Mary came in, quietly shutting the door behind her. Seeing Molly lying haphazardly on the enormous four poster bed made her laugh.

"I see you like your new room."

"I love it." She scooted over to make room for her friend who settled down next to her.

"Which do you like more, the new digs or the new housemate?" The blonde winked at her. "I heard you and Sherrinford walking down the hall an hour ago. What's he like?"

Molly shrugged, staring at the chandelier above her.

"He's nice. Very charming and respectful. He's genius, just like Sherlock. I could tell that he was deducing me, but if I didn't hang around Sherlock all the time I wouldn't have known he was doing it. He said he respected my privacy, and that if I wanted him to know something then I would tell him. It was actually very refreshing."

"I see..." Mary reached over and pulled a crumpled flower out of Molly's rumpled hair. "Does that mean Sherlock's got some competition?"

"I'm not going to insult you and say that I don't still have feelings for him." Molly inspected her fingernails, not wanting to look at her friend. "I do. In fact, it was because of them Tom and I broke it off. How can you marry one man when you might still love another?

"Tom could offer me so much. We had a dog, couple friends, we would go to the pub for trivia night. I even liked his family. We could have had a family together. Would Sherlock be able to give me any of that?"

Before Mary could answer, there was another knock on the door.

"Who is it," Mary called out.

"It's just me." He poked his head in the door, raising an eyebrow at the two prostrate women on the bed. "Ah. Er, am I interrupting something?"

"Not much. We're just talking about Sherlock's secret brother."

John came in and closed the door.

"Yeah, that was a surprise," he said, "even more so than the family mansion. How was the tour by the way, Molly?"

"It was fine, you two. He just wanted to show me the house is all."

"We didn't get a grand tour. In fact, we got stuck with the maid."

"Yes, well you did collapse on the bed and pass out as soon as we got into the room. I don't think you would have lasted on an hour long tour. Now, come on you two. Dinner is about to be put on the table, and Mrs. Fitz said she'd dig up some champagne since it's New Year's Eve.

Mrs. Fitz turned out to be the housekeeper, an older Scottish woman with graying black hair and a no-nonsense way of walking about.

"I apologize for the informality of the meal," she said, "we just don't have the staff to hold a formal dinner."

"Everything looks splendid, Mrs. Fitz, particularly you. Are those new hair combs? They look quite fetching on you." Her cheeks tinged pink at Sherrinford's teasing.

"You know as well as I do that they're new. You gave them to me for Christmas, you cheeky boy." She turned to rest of the table. "We'll be meeting in the Sailboat room after dinner for Champagne and trifle. If anyone needs anything, ring for me. I'll just be in the kitchen." The door to the dining room clicked shut behind her.

Molly glanced at the empty fifth chair.

"Is Sherlock not joining us?"

"My brother didn't feel like eating. Perhaps he'll join us for dessert later. Mrs. Fitz is making our favorite."

Dinner was a lively affair. John told Sherrinford some of his past exploits with Sherlock, and Molly filled in details about bodies and scientific evidence that the blogger couldn't give much detail on. Mary egged them on, reminding them of one escapade after another until they were full and happy.

"It seems a lot has happened in London since I was last there," said Sherrinford, taking a sip of his wine. "Of course, it's been quite a long time now."

"How long have you been here?" Mary asked.

"Just just about seven years. I haven't had contact with the outside world other than my books, the agents that watch over me, and now you fine people." He raised his glass to them. "Mycroft has been very careful to keep me hidden. One would think he was ashamed of his little brother."

"Why would he want to keep you hidden?" asked John.

"That, Dr. Watson, is a long story for a long night." He stood up. "Now who's ready for dessert?"

* * *

Long after they had finished up the dessert and bubbly, Molly Hooper was readying herself for bed. It had been an enormously long day, and truth be told she had probably had a few too many glasses of champagne with not enough dessert.

She was just turning off the light when Sherlock snuck through the door, closing it quietly behind him.

"Sherlock!" Molly hissed, "What are you doing in here?"

"I came to see you, of course. Or do you not wish to associate with me any longer now that you've made friends with my dear brother?"

"Where did that even come from?" she asked, indignantly. "Your brother was trying to be polite. Maybe he thought a little kindness would help make a hard situation better. We did just get picked up in the middle of the night and dumped in the middle of nowhere." Sherlock was taking off his coat and scarf, throwing the outerwear onto the love seat. She noticed his shoes were muddy, the caked dirt visible in the moonlight through her bay window. "Have you been marching about outside?"

"I had to make sure all of the security measures were in place." He slid off his suit jacket and flung it on the window seat.

"Alright. What are you doing here, then? Aren't you going to bed?"

"I was trying to. You, however, keep asking me incessant questions. Now, budge up and give me some space."

She scoffed at him. "You are not sleeping with me tonight. Er, I mean, sleeping here tonight." He was taking off his shoes now, placing them neatly by the lit fireplace. "Someone will notice."

"No one will notice. I'll leave before anyone is up. Now scoot over and give me some room." He slid under the covers beside her, still the trousers and long sleeved shirt he had been dressed in earlier.

"Sherlock, your feet are really cold."

"Yes, they are, aren't they?"

It was quiet for a moment.

"You missed dinner and dessert."

"Mrs. Fitz saved some for me. She knows it's my favorite."

Another moment.

"We had champagne. Well, Mary didn't, but the rest of us did. I think I had a bit too much, to be honest. It was good. Really good. Mary said she could kiss John whenever she wanted, not just at midnight on New Year's, so they went to bed early."

"Molly. You're tired, slightly intoxicated, and you're rambling."

"Sorry."

She was quiet until she fell asleep.

* * *

A few doors down, Sherrinford Holmes was looking through a shoebox full of old pictures on the floor of his closet.

In his hand was a snapshot of a beautiful young girl, her dark ringlets tousled about her thin face and her blue eyes alight with mischief.

"Oh, Enola. I'm sorry... I'm so, so sorry."

* * *

**A/N: This chapter was 3,480 words long before the note! Yay! Do you guys prefer the longer chapters or shorter chapters? Thanks to all of the lovely people who reviewed last chapter! I love hearing from the readers, as it gives me people to keep updating for :)**

**Well, a lot happened this chapter. What do you think of Sherrinford? His blossoming friendship with our lovely Molly Hooper? Sherlock was suspiciously absent for most of this chapter. Any thoughts on his goings on, or his reappearance? ;) What about Molly's New Year's Eve kiss? ;) **

**Also, if there's anyone who wants to beta read/let me bounce ideas off them, PM me. I try to catch as many mistakes as I can, but I'm definitely human. **

** As a bonus, all the people who review within the next 24 hours will get a sneak peek of a future scene. ****Thanks so much for reading!**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Hey guys, sorry it's taken so long for an update! Hopefully this chapter somewhat makes up for it :)**

* * *

"So," Molly said at breakfast the next morning, "I've been thinking – "

"It's about time someone started."

She shot Sherlock a dirty look and continued.

"I would like to learn how to shoot a gun, properly." She tried not to look pointedly at the army doctor in front of her. "I think it's high time that I learned to defend myself, if need be."

"I think that's a great idea, don't you, John?" Mary Watson beamed at her over her morning cuppa. "I think that everyone should have basic firearm training. It would spare a lot of grief."

"How about I take you out this afternoon?" John said, turning the page of his newspaper. "I can have a quick chat with the boys downstairs to get what we need, I think."

The boys downstairs, as he referred to them, were the security detail for Sherrinford, and now for them. There were around fifteen men and women, and they had a massive room downstairs filled with screens connected to surveillance cameras all over the estate grounds and house. Agent Johansson, or Vivi, as Sherrinford had introduced her, had taken them on a quick look that morning before breakfast.

"I think that sounds wonderful." Mary finished the rest of her tea and stood. "I've got to go over Mrs. Fitz shopping list. Mycroft gave her leave to purchase whatever nursery items we'll need if the baby decides to arrive before we're back home, and there are a few things I have to make sure she gets." She kissed John on the cheek, and, with a "See me before you leave, yeah?" she left.

"I think I'll head up to change," Molly said, grabbing the last piece of toast from her plate and standing. "Is there something specific I should wear?"

"You're going to train with firearms, Molly. It's not a date."

John gave him a dirty look, then smiled at Molly.

"We have to walk about a mile or so, I think, to get to a safe enough area. Just wear something sturdy and comfortable that you won't mind getting dirty."

* * *

When she left, John put down his paper.

"Tell me what's going on between you and Molly right now, and don't you _dare_ lie to me."

Sherlock's face was impassive.

"I saw you sneaking into her room last night. I heard you sneaking out of her room this morning." He gave the detective a hard look. "Mary told me to mind my own business, but I _know you_, Sherlock. I know you, and I know how Molly feels about you." He paused, collecting himself. "If you're using her like you did the last one, Janine, I swear it, Sherlock, I will not hesitate to hurt you."

"Molly isn't Janine." Sherlock said, somewhat lamely. "Janine served a single purpose, getting to Magnusson. Molly is much more important than that. She's helpful."

John scoffed at him.

"Oh, so you're getting into Molly's pants because she's 'helpful' is it? Thank God I never did anything for you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"That's not what I meant." He took a sip out of his teacup and calmly set it back in the saucer. "I stayed at Molly's flat for a few weeks after Moriarty's death. Molly is like my skull."

"Your skull?" John asked, not quite understanding.

"Yes, my skull." He sighed, exasperated with John's utter denseness, and further explained. "Molly is like my skull on the mantelpiece. She's an excellent listener. Doesn't interrupt with rude thoughts or looks. She also doesn't have an irritating blog about our cases together."

"You two have cases together?" John asked, surprised.

"Of course, John." He took another sip of his tea. "Molly has been assisting me since before you came back to London after your tour. Who do you think covered for you while you were on your honeymoon?" Another sip. "Anyway, as I was saying, Molly is helpful. She allowed me to stay at her flat before I left to unravel Moriarty's network. She let me stay whenever I happened to be in town checking in with Mycroft."

_She cleaned me up when I was stabbed by a particularly onerous assassin. She sewed me back together again. She let me into her bed because I couldn't sleep alone in the spare room, where it was too quiet, too oppressive, too lonely. _

"Sherlock."

He dragged himself back to the conversation at hand.

"In answer to your question," he said, standing, "I don't know." He downed the last bit of his tea. "I don't like not knowing."

He left John sitting at the table and headed up the stair.

* * *

Molly was exhausted.

The two mile walk to the slapdash range hadn't been too bad, but after ninety minutes of standing in the cold, firing a gun you were pretty sure was entirely too big for you, and the two mile walk _back_, Molly was ready to pass out for a nap. She was heading to her room to do just that when she found the youngest Holmes brother, who was on his way from the library.

"How was your lesson?" he asked her, stopping to walk her back to her room.

"It was alright," she said, unwinding her purple scarf from about her neck. "I'm not a very good shot, though. John's got his work cut out for him." She pulled off her leather gloves and shoved them in the pockets of her jacket.

"I'm sure he doesn't mind it." Sherrinford smiled his easy smile as they reached her bedroom door. "I was thinking about our conversation yesterday, about homeopathic remedies and the uses of different plants in medicine?" She smiled, remembering. "I was thinking that perhaps we could study a bit deeper into it, perhaps in the mornings?" He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. "There is quite a wide variety of plant growing on the grounds and in the conservatory, and I know that there are plenty of books on the subject. Would that be something to interest you?"

"Of course!" She pulled the elastic out of her hair, letting it fall down loose like a curtain. "I'd love to spend the mornings with you." She stifled a yawn. "Sorry. I'm a bit done in from the lesson. I don't usually walk so much."

"I understand," he said, tucking her hair behind an ear. "I'll let you get some rest." He pressed a light kiss to her cheek and left, the stunned pathologist wondering what had brought that on. She shrugged. Who was she to question the actions of Holmes men?

She went in to her bedroom and locked the door, stripping out of her jacket. With the flannelette shirt underneath (which she promptly pulled off), she had been entirely too warm. She always wore too many layers, it seemed.

The boots came off next, then the jeans. She was reaching for her socks when a voice rang out from across the room.

"Best leave those on. The room is chilly without the fire lit."

Sherlock was lying across her bed in a very nice looking navy blue dressing gown.

"What are you doing here? Look away!" She grabbed a quilt off the armchair next to the dormant fireplace and wrapped it around her shoulders, covering everything but her pale legs and sock shod feet. "You know, you have your own room."

"I don't like it."

"I'm sorry you don't like your room, Sherlock," she said. He was right, the room was chilly, especially just in her shirt and knickers. "I, however, do like my bedroom, and wish to utilize it. I would especially like to use the bed. Now go away."

Sherlock stiltedly got up.

"You didn't tell Sherrinford to go away."

Her jaw dropped.

"What are you talking about?!"

"I heard you talking outside your door," he said. "You make plans to spend the mornings with that idiot, but when you're with me you just want me to leave."

"Sherrinford actually _wants _to spend time with me. He specifically asked me to spend time with him."

"Must I request your favor every time I wish to interact with you?" He raised a snarky eyebrow.

"Do you want to interact with me? That is, why would you even _want_ to be around me? I couldn't tell because you've been disappearing who knows where for the past few days. First for some mission you can't tell me anything about, and now since we've gotten here you're always going off somewhere alone." She continued. "If you want to spend time with me, Sherlock, then do it!" The difference in their heights was highlighted as she yelled up at him. "I'm tired of you sneaking away, alone from the rest of us, and then coming back pissed at me for spending time with other people! You're a petulant child!"

"Have you considered, Molly, that while you're busy gallivanting around with my impetuous younger brother, I've been working to solve our little problem?" He wasn't quite yelling back at her, not yet, but he was visibly angrier than she had ever seen him. "Don't you want to return home? Don't you want to go back to London with your lonely little flat and your lonely little job?"

She ignored the barbs. She had argued with him often enough now to know when he was using insults as a defense mechanism.

"Sherlock, I would love to help you. I _want_ to help you. You just don't let me. You go off at all hours, day and night, doing whatever it is that you're doing, and then get upset that I'm not there to help you?"

He crossed his arms, still looking down at her, his mouth set in a tight line.

"Sherlock," she said, touching his arm, "I want to help you. I want to go home, and I know that you do, too. I just need you to tell me how to help you."

"I _don't know_ how you can help me. I don't know what I am doing. I don't know what's happened and it's awful. It's infuriating. And you're always off with Sherrinford, looking at your plants and books and actually leaving me _be_, for the first time in forever."

"Is that what you're on about?" she asked. "Are you jealous of how much time I'm spending with your brother?" He wasn't looking at her, but she trudged on. "Sherlock, why would you ever be jealous of my friendship with Sherrinford?"

"I can see the way he looks at you!" he said, his calm demeanor snapping, finally. "I see the interest he has for you and I can see the way you respond to it. You're attracted to him, Molly."

"Well, in all honesty, my attraction, or lack thereof, to Sherrinford is really none of your business." Molly crossed her arms at him, indignant. "You knew how I felt about you for years. You made it quite clear what you thought of my affection towards you. That gives me the right to tell you to piss off when it concerns my relationships," she said, turning to shut herself into the extravagant bathroom (preferably to have a nice long soak in the clawfoot tub until he gave up and left). "In fact, I have half a mind to tell you to piss off completely."

"Molly, wait." He stopped her before she reached the door, his hand lightly gripping her upper arm.

"No, Sherlock. I'm tired. If you don't love me, that's fine. But don't interfere when I find someone who will."

"Molly..." he trailed off, unsure of what to say.

"Just don't Sherlock. Leave me be." She tried to pull her arm away from him, but he held fast. "Let me go, Sherlock."

"I don't want to." His voice was quiet behind her. "I don't want to let go of you, Molly. I want you to stay, here with me." She could feel the heat of his body on her back as he got closer, his chest touching her back. "I don't want you to leave me. Stay." His hand trailed down her arm to find her own hand and turned her around to face him. He laced his fingers with hers. "Please, Molly."

"Sherlock, what–"

He kissed her, full on the mouth. It felt so right to mold in to him, she thought, the lines of their bodies fitting perfectly into each other as though designed by a greater being. When he tangled his hands into her hair, she sighed and broke away, her eyes shut tight.

"Don't kiss me if you don't mean it, Sherlock." She couldn't look at him. It was hard enough saying it, and she couldn't bear looking at him, in case the feelings he was projecting on her were just that – projections.

He didn't answer her, at least, not verbally. Instead, he brought his mouth to hers once more, and this time she responded, twisting her fingers into his dark curls and pulling him closer, wanting to be as close to him as physically possible. She could feel his phone buzz through the soft fabric of his dressing gown, vibrating against her belly. She started to pull away.

"Leave it." She didn't argue.

A few seconds later, another buzz, this time going through the dressing gown and reverberating across the hardwood floor next to Molly's bed.

"Molly?"

Mary's voice came, muffled, from the other side of Molly's bedroom door.

"Maybe she'll go away?" Molly whispered, pausing in her removal of Sherlock's purple dress shirt. They waited, not moving.

"Molly?" Mary was knocking on the door. Sherlock's phone buzzed again.

Molly sighed and rolled off of the half-dressed detective, flopping herself onto the bed next to him.

"Molly, it's pretty urgent. I don't want to scare you, but there's been a body, and we need your help."

Sherlock immediately sat up and, after stopping momentarily to pick up and put on his discarded dressing gown, crossed over to the door, opening it just wide enough to keep Molly out of Mary's view.

"What happened?"

Mary raised an eyebrow at the detective, taking in his uncharacteristically rumpled appearance.

"Is your shirt undone?" she asked, grinning.

"There's a body and you're grinning," Sherlock said. "Apparently such enthusiasm is frowned upon when it directly relates to murder, or so I've been told. As you were saying?"

"Right. Well, someone dumped a body on the doorstep to Baker Street." Molly, now appropriately dressed, came to stand next to Sherlock, who opened the door a bit more so she could see.

"What does that have to do with me? Couldn't somebody else at Bart's handle it?"

"Normally they could," she agreed, nodding. "However, this one's got your name on it."

* * *

**A/N: Leave me a note and tell me what you thought. Also, if anyone is willing to beta for this story, send me a PM! I sent out a few messages to listed betas, but I haven't found a good fit. Just give me a holler if you think you'd be able to give this story a second pair of eyes (and occasionally bounce ideas back and forth with me). Thanks! **


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